


Pick My Petals Off

by Juxtaposie



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Choking, Drug Use, F/M, Hate Sex, I don’t even know, Knife Play, Light BDSM, PWP, Pre-Canon, Spanking, feelings with a side of porn?, mild drug abuse, porn with a side of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juxtaposie/pseuds/Juxtaposie
Summary: “I don’t believe you,” she said again, wishing she had more to throw at him. “You cannot speak to people that way! He was - he was asponsor! His money kept our tribute from dying of dehydra-”“Boy’s dead now,” Haymitch broke in as he sifted through the bottles on the drink cart. “Turns out water purification tablets aren’t much protection against having your throat slit.”“That’s no excuse for you to go around burning all our bridges!” Effie countered shrilly. “Honestly, Haymitch, I don’t even know what to say to you!”He sighed. “And yet, somehow, your mouth is still moving.”Haymitch and Effie deal with their feelings the only way they know how.





	Pick My Petals Off

**Author's Note:**

> For my follow-up, I bring you... seven thousand words worth of porn!
> 
> Don't have sex like this, kids. Don't. It's not healthy.
> 
> But it is very, very fun to read.

Effie wasn’t remotely approaching sober, and that should have been her first clue that she wasn’t completely in control of herself that evening. She wasn’t really drunk, not by any definition of the word, but three strong cocktails on top of her usual (completely prescribed) dosage of medications, meant to keep her sharp through the long days of the Games - and the one little blue tablet, of the celebratory, recreational type - had her feeling loose enough that she was having some trouble filtering the words coming out of her mouth. There’d been rather a lot of giggling going on, and a truly obscene amount of flirting - though it was far from unwelcome, if the looks she’d been getting all night were any indication.

Brandt, their boy, had lived through the bloodbath of the Cornucopia and managed to survive six days, and with only nine tributes left his chances of making it into the final eight had seemed passing fair. At seventeen he was one of the oldest tributes in the arena that year, and he was tall and strong, with dark hair and grey eyes from his Seam-born mother and the coveted extra weight afforded him from his father’s town job as the mayor’s head clerk. (That his parents were from different social classes hadn’t escaped her notice, but she’d been surprised to learn that their marriage was somewhat of an oddity.) He wasn’t the brightest, but he was sensible and determined, and Effie’d had high hopes.

Until he’d run into the Careers from Two, anyways, and Haymitch had shot his mouth off loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“I don’t believe you!” she exclaimed as soon as the penthouse doors had closed behind her, throwing her clutch as hard as she could at the back of his head. For a moment she was horrified at her own lack of decorum, but the handbag missed him by more than a foot, landing just to his left and sliding across the floor. His response to the attempted violence was a barely-smothered snort of laughter, and he made a detour to kick the clutch underneath the couch. 

For the first time in her life, Effie understood the phrase, “seeing red.”

She’d suspected for a while that the whole sloppy drunk thing was an act. His one wish in the entire world was to be left alone, and being the laughing stock of the Games had accomplished that nicely, but he wasn’t nearly the oblivious reprobate he pretended to be. In fact, he wasn’t oblivious at all: he was observant, and calculating, and sharp as a tack. He’d spent years sliding under the radar by being so low on the social ladder he was beneath notice, and she wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take for someone to find him when he finally drank himself to death. The thought made her stomach churn. Tonight, though, tonight he was sober - or as sober as he ever got, which meant he’d still had half a dozen strong drinks, but that was barely a nightcap for him - and that only made his behavior worse. 

“I don’t believe you,” she said again, wishing she had more to throw at him. “You cannot speak to people that way! He was - he was a _sponsor_! His money kept our tribute from dying of dehydra-”

“Boy’s dead now,” Haymitch broke in as he sifted through the bottles on the drink cart. “Turns out water purification tablets aren’t much protection against having your throat slit.”

“That’s no excuse for you to go around burning all our bridges!” Effie countered shrilly. “Honestly, Haymitch, I don’t even know what to say to you!”

He sighed. “And yet, somehow, your mouth is still moving.”

The sound of clinking glass was all that followed in the wake of her outraged gasp. She had no idea why she was so affronted - even his most pleasant behavior toward her could only ever be called indifferent - and from the look he tossed her over his shoulder she could tell he was not only aware of the effect he was having on her, he was also enjoying it. No doubt he thought she was blowing this out of proportion, possibly because of her “pathological need for attention” - and how dare he comment on her mental state, barely functioning alcoholic that he was! - but watching him bite back a smile set her blood boiling. He was picking over the liquor bottles on the cart, being choosy, when she knew he would drink absolutely anything as long as it got the job done, and he was doing it because the longer he stood there in silence, ignoring her outburst, the angrier she got. 

“Oh, are you done?” he jibed as he finally made his selection, twisting the lid off a bottle of amber liquid that was probably whiskey and drinking directly from it. 

“Your behavior is appalling,” Effie snapped, stepping up to snatch the bottle away from him. She made a grab for the cap too, but he held it over his head, and even in heels she wasn’t tall enough to reach it. “I should call the Peacekeepers and have them lock you in your room. After the way you talked to Aeneas Upton, it might even be justified!”

Haymitch smiled grimly. “Last I checked calling someone a jackass was barely a punishable offense, even under Snow.”

“His wife throws the most lavish New Year’s party, I’ll have you know!” She reached for the cap again, fully invading his personal space when he held it higher. “I’ll be lucky to get an invitation now!”

“However will you cope?” he deadpanned. 

Any retort Effie could have made was swallowed in an ear-piercing shriek when Haymitch took advantage of her proximity, wrapping his free arm around her waist and swinging them around to shove her bodily against the wall, where he pinned her with his hips. Liquor sloshed out of the bottleneck, soaking her glove, his jacket, and the front of her dress (which also soaked most of her chest, since the dress was a thin nude mesh elaborately beaded to show off the shape of her body along with the fact she wasn’t wearing any undergarments, while still leaving the most important things up to the imagination). She froze, shocked by both the sudden press of his body and the chill of the alcohol, and made no attempt to hold onto the bottle when he grabbed it from her. By the time she’d collected herself enough to put her hands on his chest, fully intending to push him away, he’d taken two long swigs.

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice thready and breathless as her hands curled around the lapels of his jacket. 

“Look, I’m happy to keep up the pretense as long as you want,” he said after another drink right from the bottle. He shifted a little, one of his knees nudging between hers, and something in his lazy smile turned predatory. “But I think you’re fighting a losing battle, sweetheart.”

Her hips canted forward on their own, seeking friction, and she realized he was already half hard. She licked her lips, pleased when his gaze darted down to her mouth, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he said, and then he kissed her. It was a violent thing, harsh and sudden, his arm tightening around her waist as he pushed his tongue into her open mouth. Unthinking, she kissed him back, her feet sliding further apart on the floor until his thigh was nestled firmly between her legs. They both groaned at the contact, and a wave of warm pleasure rolled through her, redoubling when he grabbed her ass. He pulled her in closer, rolling his hips into hers as he fumbled to drop the bottle back on the table without letting go of her. 

Something crashed to the floor, but didn’t shatter, and Effie broke the kiss to protest, “Haymitch!” 

Either he was ignoring her, or he’d read something else entirely in her outburst, but his response was to grip her chin in his free hand, which was sticky with drying whiskey, and tilt her head to the side so he could nip at the newly exposed skin beneath her jaw, before sucking gently on the same spot. She couldn’t stop the moan that rose out of the back of her throat, and before she could really comprehend it she was pulling him closer again, pressing her breasts to his chest. The beading on her dress rasped deliciously against her nipples.

He pulled away suddenly, stooping to press his lips to her breastbone through the dress, and Effie had no idea what he thought he was doing until cold air hit her legs. Goosebumps broke out along her entire body, her nipples pebbling, but then Haymitch straightened and kissed her again, one hand resting high on her thigh, up under the heavy skirt of her gown. She groaned when all he did was stroke his thumb across the seam between her thigh and her hip. 

“God, stop teasing!” she snapped after several long moments of wet, sloppy kissing while his hand remained maddeningly still. She was embarrassingly wet. 

He laughed, and bit her shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Sliding one hand into the sweaty hair at the base of his skull, Effie pulled his head up and tried again. “Touch me,” she said, biting her lip as she rolled her hips. 

There was that predatory smile again as he cupped her cheek in his palm, pressing his thumb against her pouting lips until she sucked it into her mouth obediently and caught the first knuckle gently between her teeth. “Ask me like a good girl,” he chided as he pulled his thumb out of her mouth and slid it beneath her chin until it dig painfully into her pulse point. A thrill shot through her.

“Please,” she said gently, swallowing reflexively against the pressure on her throat as his fingers curled around the side of her neck. 

His pupils dilated and she whined when he tightened his grip, her hips canting, desperate for his touch. Leaning in, he laid a feather-light kiss on the apple of one flushed cheek, nudging the shell of her ear with his nose. “Please what?”

Her knees had all but gone to jelly when his breath ghosted, hot and damp, across her ear, but then he bit the tender skin behind it and she was sure the only thing holding her up was the promise of what he would do to her if she gave him what he wanted. Her whole body was trembling when she breathed, “Please touch me.”

There was no fanfare or lead up. One moment his hand was on her thigh and the next he was between her legs, dragging his fingers through the slick folds of her sex. She let out a gasping moan, pushing her hips into his hand when he found her clit with little searching. 

“What do you say?” Haymitch asked as one fingertip stroked over her clit, rolling the swollen bud in slow, tight circles.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly as he touched her, both her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. “Thank you, that’s so- fuck, that’s so good, thank you.”

He squeezed her throat one final time before grasping the back of her neck and kissing her hotly, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. Effie moaned and kissed him back eagerly, tilting her hips against his palm in the hope that he would sink his fingers into her. 

He had to know what she wanted. He could read her like an open book, but despite all the years they’d worked together, all the long hours, all the times they’d been intimate, she could never tell what he was thinking. It stung a little, that he was so closed when he seemed to see right through her - through most people, in fact. (For someone who hated society, he was very good at understanding it.) Whenever they were together like this, it seemed like he worked doubly hard to buck her expectations. Some nights he was silent and sullen, taking from her and giving little in return. On better nights he would pin her to the nearest surface and put his hands on her, demanding her complete obedience and wringing every last drop of pleasure out of her before finally taking his own. On the best nights, the worst nights, he whispered filthy things to her as he fucked her gently, almost tenderly, with long, slow strokes and languid kisses.

She dreaded those nights as much as she treasured them, because it was so easy to pretend that he might be lying to himself, that he might feel for her even a fraction of what she felt for him, but it always ended. She always woke up alone, shoved neatly back into her role of competent but annoying coworker who sometimes allowed him to fuck her. 

(She never hated him for taking advantage of her feelings, even when he was cruel about it. In the end, she usually just hated herself.)

“Stop overthinking it,” Haymitch said half a second before he plunged two fingers into her, effectively halting her train of thought. She convulsed, throwing her head back against the wall and crying out at the mingled pain and pleasure of the sudden intrusion, then keened as he slid a third finger in beside the first two and started to fuck her - hard. 

Her mouth dropped open soundlessly and for a few long moments all she could do was cling to him, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the shoulders of his jacket. She could _hear_ his fingers pumping in and out of her as he pushed her higher. Her legs shook as the wave of pleasure built, her whole body trembling, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stand much longer, but no sooner had she thought it than Haymitch wrapped an arm tightly around her waist, holding her close as he worked her. 

He kissed the corner of her slackened mouth, breathing hard against her cheek before dropping his forehead against her temple. “Shit,” he swore hoarsely. “You’re so wet it’s running down my arm. Are you gonna come for me?” 

His thumb found her clit again as he curled his fingers inside her, and the only noise she could make was a breathless whine. She could feel how hard he was where he pressed against her hip. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, unrelenting. “Tell me you wanna come for me.”

Chest heaving as she fought for breath, she managed to gasp, “Yes! Yes, I wanna come, please, I’m so close - so close, yes, yes-“

And then he pulled his hand away. 

Time ground to a screeching, shuddering halt. She shivered, cold without his touch to stoke the fire raging at her core, and for a few moments she was simply confused. Why had he stopped? Where had he gone? She was still so close to the precipice she could feel the throbbing beat of her heart between her legs, her hips jerking in time with a phantom touch. It wasn’t until he touched her cheek, his fingertips wet with her arousal, that she focused. 

“Not yet,” he said before he kissed her softly. 

Ridiculous, childish tears stung her eyes at his refusal to give her what she wanted. She felt, rather stupidly, like she had been rejected in some way, and she knew it was probably the drinks, or the drugs, or even her own insecurities, but that didn’t stop her from despairing. Haymitch wanted her to make a choice, but that meant thinking, and if she engaged her brain she knew what she would see - the bright bloom of blood, the death rattle, to say nothing of the girl who’d had her head smashed in, her face crushed like so much pulpy fruit while the sun glinting off the cornucopia picked out red-brown highlights in her curly black hair.

But he always gave her the choice, just as she knew he always would. She could demand he finish her, or push him away, and both would accomplish the same thing - the night would be over, and they would go to their separate rooms, she to drug herself into dreamless sleep, and he to drink himself into oblivion - or she could give him what he wanted. She could surrender control and let him use her body and trust him not to break her. 

She didn’t know if she trusted him. He was a good man - possibly the best she knew - but a part of him had never left the arena. She wasn’t even sure if she trusted herself. It scared her sometimes, the way she could so effectively turn her brain off when he handled her. She let him get away with things she would have left another lover over. It scared her, and it thrilled her. The only thing she really knew was that she didn’t want to be alone. If this was the only way she could have him, she would let him do whatever he wanted.

So she kissed him back and murmured, “Take me to bed,” into his hungry mouth. She let him spin her around and lead her down the hall with a hand cupped around the nape of her neck, let him scoop her up when she stumbled as her shoe caught the front of her dress, let him lick and bite and suck angry red bruises into the tender skin of her throat, and finally, after he’d all but dropped her, she let him spin her around to bend her over the footboard of the bed. 

He stayed close to her, pressing his erection against the curve of her ass as he groped her over her dress while he savaged the back of her neck. Effie pushed back against him, wiggling until he groaned and arching her back. She grabbed at one of his hands, lacing their fingers together and urging him to squeeze until it was almost painful, but he countered by clutching her wrist and dragging her arm behind her back. His other hand closed around her throat, forcing her head back onto his shoulder, and he kissed her as he started to squeeze. 

Wet warmth spread through her center again, making her thighs sticky as adrenaline flooded through her veins. Her pulse pounded beneath his palm and between her legs, one place longing for the pressure of the other. She tried to moan, to say his name, anything that would urge him on, but the only noise able to escape was a choking whine, which ended abruptly when his fingers tightened again. He was so hard it had to hurt, rocking against her as he held her in place, and more than she wanted to breathe, she wanted him inside her. He bit her hard, so hard her eyes watered and the tears spilled over her eyelashes. One of her hands scrabbled uselessly across his forearm, her fingers wrapping around his wrist to pry his hand from her throat, but he was so much stronger than her, even after years of hard drinking. Still she pushed back against him, her feet slipping further apart as little black spots began to dance at the edges of her vision.

Then he was touching her again, his hand up under her dress, fingers parting her soaked folds to rub harsh, tight circles on her clit. She drew a deep, shuddering breath; the pressure on her throat was gone and Haymitch was cradling her cheek in his large, warm palm, his mouth soft and wet on her bruised skin

“That’s right,” he said lowly. “That’s right, honey. You’re so wet. Go on and come for me.”

And she did, with a long, loud cry as the electricity skittering over her skin finally turned to lightning, bright white and exhilarating, singing through every nerve as oxygen flowed into her aching lungs. Her body seized, convulsing so violently that her knees gave out and Haymitch was the only thing holding her up. She could feel more wetness gushing around his fingertips, until it was running down the insides of her thighs. Everything inside of her was violent, all-consuming heat. 

She was vaguely aware of being moved, and when she finally stopped shaking and came down enough to take stock she was lying on her stomach across the bed, both arms pinned beneath the weight of her body as if she’d curled in on herself. Her hips and legs dangled off the edge, the toes of her shoes scrabbling uselessly against the carpet. Haymitch had her pinned with his hips, his cock still hard and insistent against the back of her thighs, but it wasn’t until she turned her head and tried to push up on her elbows that she felt his forearm across her shoulders, holding her upper body in place. 

He pushed her harder into the mattress with a sharp, “Stay still,” his voice rough and wrecked. Unbelievably, a thrill of pleasure shot through her, her clit pulsing wantonly - it was the drugs, it had to be the drugs. 

She did as he asked, lying as still as she could while her heartbeat picked up again, as if it had ever even stopped thundering. She knew he was undressing her, could now feel the tell-tale whisper of cool air moving over the newly exposed skin of her upper back, but she had no idea how he was accomplishing it. The row of tiny rhinestone buttons ran all the way from the nape of her neck to her tailbone, and even her stylist had needed a button hook for the closures. Haymitch wasn’t exactly clumsy, but between nerves and alcohol abuse there was a subtle tremor in his hands that never quite went away. 

It wasn’t until something small and glimmering rolled over her shoulder and settled in the creased coverlet that she realized he was simply popping the buttons off, and any pleasure she’d been feeling was immediately subsumed by outrage. “Haymitch!” she snapped as she started to struggle. “How could you- this is on loan! I can’t- the deposit _alone_ is-“

Her sputtered protests were cut short when his open palm cracked sharply across her backside. The indignant words in her mouth turned into a high-pitched yelp, which in turn became a low moan when he spanked her twice more in quick succession. Her hips lifted and she pushed back against him, rubbing her thighs together in a vain attempt to ease the throbbing ache that was again growing between them, but then something cold and hard pressed between her shoulder blades and she froze. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest and she let out a shaky breath, her nipples pebbling again. 

Haymitch leaned over her, his hand on the bed beside her face. He nuzzled the shell of her ear, his breath fanning across her cheek, and said, “You gonna mind me?”

“Yes,” Effie whimpered, the words all but lost on a sigh as his lips ghosted down the side of her neck and out across her shoulder. His mouth was a soft, sweet counterpoint to the icy-cold steel of the knife, and heat flooded through her, carried by the thrill of fear. 

The knifepoint made a slow, careful march down her spine, then disappeared as it caught another button. “I can’t hear you.”

She could hear it in his voice, how badly he wanted to fuck her. The stupid man was still completely dressed, and it was a wonder he could even speak at all with the way he was rubbing his erection against her ass, but if she misbehaved too much he’d leave her squirming out of spite. He’d done it before, on multiple occasions - pulled away without a word and left her high and dry, retreating to the cold, familiar arms of liquor and his own hand. More than she wanted to come, she wanted him to stay. She’d never done well on her own. Clearly Haymitch didn’t either, but he’d been lying to everyone about it for so long that even _he_ had started to believe it. Sometimes she thought she might be the only person in the world who knew that truth. 

In that moment, she would have done anything to keep him with her. 

He was frozen above her, breathing hard but waiting for her answer. Tears pricked her eyes again - really she should have known better than to mix substances; she always got so _emotional_ \- and she had to swallow around the choking lump in her throat before she said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” he prompted, unsatisfied. 

She forced herself to be still, groaning in protest. “I’ll be good.”

Haymitch made a rough, gravelly noise of approval, and stroked the backs of his fingertips down the same path the knife had taken. Little tendrils of warmth curled across her skin where he touched her. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, and her cunt throbbed at the sound of his voice. She felt the press of metal against her skin, felt the back of her dress slowly parting as he worked down the row of buttons on her back. She was so hungry to have him inside her that she was dripping, the wetness of her arousal running between her folds, down over the swollen bud of her clit. By the time he set the knife aside she was trembling with the effort of keeping still. 

His put his hands on her back and smoothed them around her ribs underneath her dress, palming both her breasts before pinching her peaked nipples. This provided all the urging she needed to push up on her hands and knees. He didn’t try to stop her, just curved his body over hers to help her push her sleeves down her arms, peeling off her rings and gloves in the process. He pulled her back to her feet long enough for her to shimmy out of the dress, which dropped heavily to the floor, and he kicked it under the bed just like he’d kicked her clutch under the couch in the living room. 

“Hands and knees,” he said, punctuating the command with another sharp slap to her backside. When Effie scrambled to comply, desperate to have him inside her, she heard him choke back a laugh. 

“Oh, please don’t,” she begged. She didn’t think she could handle his careless cruelty on top of everything else. 

“How come the only time you do what I tell you is when I’m gonna fuck you?” he asked with another low, throaty laugh. Behind her, she could hear the jingle of his belt buckle as he pulled it loose. 

Effie’s response was an impatient whine. She could hear him shuffling behind her, shedding clothes as he urged her up the bed so he had enough room to kneel behind her, pulling her shoes off her feet and dropping them on the carpet, but he was taking much too long. The air in the bedroom was cool against her overheated skin, raising goosebumps on her arms and legs and emphasizing how embarrassingly wet she was, and if Haymitch wasn’t going to do anything about it she was more than capable of taking things into her own hands. 

She let out a breathless laugh, unable to contain herself as she reached up to cup her breast, squeezing hard, pinching and pulling at her swollen nipple before skimming her hand down her stomach and reaching between her legs. The flesh of her sex was tender and slick, and her clit throbbed as her fingertips skated over it, barely touching. She slid one finger into her aching, empty cunt, pushing a second in beside it almost immediately, and then a third. There was a twinge, a sensation of being stretched and filled, but after Haymitch’s fingers it wasn’t nearly enough, and she whimpered, desperate and undone, ready to try for all four-

-but the whimper turned into a cry of surprise - and just a touch of pain - when Haymitch wrapped a hand around her elbow and yanked her arm behind her back. A hand between her shoulder blades forced her face down against the mattress and then he was pressed against her again, his hips on her ass, his cock rutting between her legs, skin on skin. He spanked her once, hard, and they both groaned as she jolted beneath him. 

“Bad girl,” he growled, spanking her again. “That cunt’s mine.” He let go of her arm and wrapped his hand around her throat, pulling her up onto her knees as another blow landed on her ass. Gripping her chin with bruising force, he tilted her head so he could kiss her, biting at her bottom lip before sucking hard. He spanked her again, harder, his mouth swallowing her keening wail. His mouth travelled down the length of her neck, and out to the point of her shoulder, biting and suck, his teeth a dull, deep counterpoint to the stinging heat on her ass as his open hand landed on her bruised backside again and again. He was still thrusting between her legs, through the drenched folds of her cunt, the head of his cock just whispering over her clit. She arched her back, searching for friction, almost crying in frustration when he held her in place. The angle was almost perfect, just another degree and he would slip inside her, but with the way he had her flush against his chest it was nothing short of torture. 

“Haymitch - ah!” she begged, losing the last syllable when he squeezed her ass, rubbing his palm across the burning flesh. 

“You wanna come again?” he asked, snaking his hand over her hip and down the quivering plane of her belly. He was so close to touching her clit she thought she might cry. 

Laying her palm over his, she tried to force his hand to where she wanted it. Like lightning the gentle touch was gone, and he spanked her so hard she saw stars. The tears that had been welling in her eyes finally spilled over. 

He ran a hand up her body, stopping to knead her breasts, pinching her nipples so hard she yelped, and wrapped his fingers around her throat again. “Why don’t you use some of those manners you love so much and ask me nice-like.”

She would have agreed to anything in that moment.

“Please, please fuck me,” she begged, so undone she was almost babbling. “Please fuck me, I need - I need to come, Haymitch, please, I’ll be a good girl, I promise- I-I promise, oh god-“

When he wedged his hand between her trembling thighs she lost all coherency, a string of curses falling from her lips as she rocked her hips into his touch. His fingers parted her soaked flesh, slipping through the wetness in search of her clit, and Effie sobbed, barely catching herself on shaking arms as she pushed against him.

His hand on her hip was all the warning she had before she felt the head of his cock nudging at her entrance. 

“Fuck!” she swore as he started to sink into her, burying her face against the bed, trying to push herself back on him, and she wanted to cry when he stopped her. She was so close to coming her toes were curling. 

Putting a hand on her waist, he pushed until her arms collapsed, still barely moving inside in her. His voice was rough, almost pained when he said, “If you come before I’m inside you, I’ll spank you so hard you can’t sit down for week.”

A high, keening wail was the only reply she could give as he sank slowly, so slowly into her. Every inch seemed to take an eternity, pushing and stretching and filling her, driving her closer to the edge. His hands clenched and his fingers dug into her flesh, one at her waist and the other at her hip. They were both breathing hard, Haymitch’s deep, satisfied groans a perfect counterpoint to the thin, breathless noise pushing itself out of her mouth.

Effie thought she might die when he finally hilted, her entire body still as stone in an effort to hold back the tide. Swearing, he skimmed a hand up her spine, and said, “You feel so fucking good,” before leaning over her, his chest flush to her back, his hips rocking against hers. 

“Haymitch, please,” she moaned with her hands fisted in the bedclothes. “Please I can’t-“

“Well go on then, princess,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Then he pressed two fingers between her legs, and she unraveled. There was a long moment where everything in her seemed to freeze - everything but his cock as he started thrusting, slow and deep, and his hands grasping her hips to drag her back toward him. Her whole body went taut as pleasure rushed at her at the speed of light, and when it reached her she exploded. A choked, stuttered scream tore free from her throat as she pushed back on him, her whole body shaking, wet warmth pouring out of her around his cock, coating both their thighs, and she was coming and coming and coming…

But it didn’t stop; it only abated, seeming to pull away from her like a wave receding from the shoreline. Haymitch was thrusting hard now, his grip bruising as he pumped into her, and she whined, rocking back against him in earnest.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You feel so good, sweetheart. You got another one for me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, yes, yes-“

He redoubled his efforts, fucking her faster. “Touch yourself. I wanna feel you come again.”

It took monumental effort to make her limbs obey, she was so absorbed in him moving inside her. Her thighs were shaking, her shoulders felt too heavy to lift, but somehow she managed to snake an arm beneath herself. Her fingers found the wet, swollen bud of her clit and went furiously to work rubbing tight, messy circles.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Come on, Effie. I need you to come.”

His rhythm began to falter, his hips grinding into her ass as he pushed himself as deep as her body would allow. Restless hands roved her body, grasping at her hips and ass, her waist and her shoulders, anything he could hold onto for purchase. She could feel him swelling inside her, and she was so full, and it was so good. This time when she came it broke over her in gentle waves, carrying her shaking, shuddering body past all resistance. She collapsed onto the mattress, boneless and sated, and still Haymitch was thrusting, hard and fast, pounding into her until she whimpered at the prolonged aftershocks. 

He came hard, with a long, groaning swear, spilling into her pliant body. She reveled in the rush of wetness, in the pulsing of his cock, in the way he half-collapsed onto her, wriggling an arm beneath her to pull her with him as he rolled into his side, and for a long time the only sound was their labored breathing. 

This was the sweet spot. This was what she craved, this precious time after when he held, when he let his hands wander over her, touching her just to touch her; when she was allowed to lace their fingers together and hold his hand, to reach back behind them both and smooth over the wild curls of his dark hair. He held her tightly, one arm around her shoulder and the other around her waist, clutching at one breast not out of greed but out of need for comfort. Soft kisses traveled down the side of her face, over the tender skin of her neck, soothing the bruises he’d left her with. He was murmuring something she couldn’t hear that sounded a little like her name, his knees curling in closer to hers as her pulled her tighter against him.

Just for a little while, Effie let herself forget it was a lie. 

“He laughed,” Haymitch said, rousing her from the light doze she’d fallen into. She tilted her head back to look at him, but he was gazing at some invisible point she couldn’t see. “About… the boy. I have take him back to his parents in a box, and the sonnuva bitch was lamenting his goddamn _money_ , and I just…”

For one painful moment she could see it in his eyes - twenty years of grief and disaster, failure after failure. “Haymitch,” she said softly, turning in his embrace. 

She was desperate to hold him, to give him some of the comfort she was almost convinced he wanted, but the spell was broken. The guarded look he usually wore slammed down over his eyes, and when he finally looked at her she didn’t like what she saw.

He rolled away from her and sat up like he couldn’t do it fast enough, like she was something distasteful to be used and discarded. Running a hand over his face and back through his hair, he glanced at her again with barely concealed scorn, and said, “You look like a train wreck.” 

“Where are you going?” she asked quietly when started searching for his clothes. 

“Not that it’s any of your damn business,” he said as he stepped into his slacks and pulled them on, “but I need a drink. And you need… hell if I know. Go get cleaned up. You look like shit.”

And then he was gone, sweeping up his shoes and jacket, not even bothering to button his shirt before the door slammed shut behind him and she was alone. 

She still ached from having him inside her. The mess between her thighs had not even had time to dry.

Sighing, she rose from the bed on unsteady legs. Her thighs protested when she knelt beside the bed to fish her ruined dress out; her waist ached as she bent to retrieve first one shoe, and then the other, dumping the whole mess onto the couch for the Avoxes. There were pills in her bedside table that would chase away the emotions trying to overtake her - the anger and sadness and guilt and self-loathing. One would have her floating in gentle, painless euphoria, and a second would put her to sleep,

She swallowed the first one dry as she unpinned her wig, a pearly-white cloud of curls that had contrasted nicely with the bright reds and pinks of her dress. It and the wig cap both went onto the counter without a second thought as she shook her hair out, and she didn’t bother to remove what was left of her makeup before stepping into the shower. She avoided the mirror’s accusing gaze, too afraid she would see whatever Haymitch had seen before he’d fled.

The shower was good and hot, scented like jasmine and lilies, and she scrubbed herself down meticulously, somehow convinced she could put further distance between them if she rid her body of any trace of him. (She couldn’t get rid of the bruising, though, the dark hickeys and love bites on her neck and the fingerprints pressed into her hips.) A second pill went down when she was done lathering herself in toning lotion, before she slipped her nightgown on, and she took a third when she was settled in bed, just for good measure. It wouldn’t do to have bad dreams, and even if she was too high to sleep she could at least drift. 

What did it matter what Haymitch thought of her? He was District, and being a Victor didn’t cancel out the fact that he was a drunk, or that he was Twelve through and through, would have been a coal miner if the Games hadn’t elevated him to some acceptable social status. She never would have looked at him twice if his win hadn’t been so singular, so against the odds. She’d always known she was too good for him. 

“Train wreck,” she scoffed, her voice too loud in the quiet of her room. One of them was a train wreck all right - one of them had been sick on camera, been so falling-down-drunk he’d had to be carried on and off the train, propped up during interviews and speeches (when he hadn’t missed them entirely, passed out cold in his own puke), and it wasn’t Effie. 

And that was fine - all of it was fine - because what did Haymitch matter to her in the end? 

“Not a fucking thing,” she said aloud. 

Maybe if she said it enough times she’d actually start to believe it. All she had was the ache between her legs to give away the lie.


End file.
